Andraste's Grace
by warriorforadonai
Summary: At the end of the First Blight, a young woman rebels against all that she has known and become the symbol of a revolution and a religion. M for adult situations, violence and implied rape.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: It has been a while since I've written fanfiction, but this story has been in my head. Rated M for violence and sexual situations to come. Right now I am planning on six chapters, plus prologue and epilogue. The makers of DragonAge have compared Andraste to Joan of Arc, so for the most part, this will mirror that, but also fair warning: any ideas dealing with religion and the Maker are influenced by my own religious beliefs. Inspired by _Second Chances_ by Thoughts Left Unspoken. You should go read it. Seriously. It's awesome.

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. I bow to the writers and Bioware.

Andraste's Grace

Prologue

Hindsight

It has been said that if a hero lives long enough, that he will become a villain even to those who love him most. That was never my fate. My followers and friends proved more loyal than I could ever have believed. I died before my fortieth birthday amid fire and jeers and surrounded by lifelong enemies. And still, I have little that I regret.

Each life touches so many others. If I recanted the things that I might wish to, the situations that ought to make me blush with shame, I never would have had my children or my one epic love. I cannot wish those people away. Selfish as I am, they were my solace for everything that I had suffered, that I had sacrificed. My life was rich and full. A barbarian slave turned revolutionary. A barefoot child who became a wife and mother and lover. I was someone who cursed her existence and found myself living for a Cause much bigger than myself. I was a contradiction and refused to compromise when I found my path. Perhaps if I had been less focused on myself. . . But looking back, how can I regret what has come from me?

My life changed the course of the Alamarri tribes, but my death changed the course of Thedas. And yet, when the smoke choked me, the fire licked my toes, and one man cried tears of repentance, all I saw were the faces of my beloved sons and one pair of emerald eyes. My last moments in Thedas were not centered on the good I was doing, on my martyrdom, but on the men I loved. I was ready to go then, to be with the ones who had gone before me. I was ready to escape the responsibility and the mantle I had taken up, and all too eager to flee the pain of my body. That alone might be a shock to some. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Why tell my story now, you might wonder. It has been so many years, years of teachings and traditions and Chantry interpretations. This is not the first time injustice had been committed in my name. Why speak now? Would they even listen? It is because I fear they would not that I must.

If anything, my childhood taught me that the truth must be spoken the most when it will be denied. There are always some who will listen, in spite of appearances. I must speak it now, now that mages and Templars are clashing. So many deaths in my name, in the Maker's name.

I understand war. I know that sometimes good people are killed in changing a way of life. I have lived it. But the Chantry has forgotten me. Though they say they follow my ways, listen to the words that I have spoken, they do not hear me. Many Templars, many Chantry Mothers, but not all, are treading a path I would not take, killing innocent people who have done nothing. If the Maker were to grant me more time in Thedas, would they recognize the escaped slave? Would they know me as the powerful mage I am or would they kill me for fear of what I may become?

This is why I must tell my tale to you now. There must be someone to speak against the acts of terror, the death of children, the dealing with demons to save a life now tarnished. It is my hope that you will go out to the people of Thedas and share the whole truth of my birth, life and death. The acts of heroism and the despair. My shame and my pride. The world should know what I stood for, but the world must also know my mistakes, and there were plenty. Listen, child, and know me.

Born a slave, lived as a Prophet, died a woman.


	2. Chapter 1: Brona's Despair

Author's Note: I'm really looking forward to the end of this story, mostly because I'm looking forward to relationship stuff (ooo angst), but bear with me until then. I beginning to like getting to know who Andraste is and how she got to the pyre. Also, I have no beta, so if you see an error, please give me a heads-up.

Chapter One

Brona's Despair

When the Tevinter Imperium conquered my little fishing village, some of the soldiers decided to stay. They choose the thick forests and the fertile fields along the coast over returning to the crowded metropolis of Mithranous. By the time I was born, the village had been absorbed by the Imperium for generations, but there were never many slaves, not like in the Imperium proper. For one, there were few elves to begin with, some of the favorites of the Magister overlords. Most of the people who had lived in the village were left alone, allowed to search the sea for their livelihood as they always had, assimilating into the empire. However, those who offered the most resistance, the clan leaders who led the opposition, were killed and their families enslaved. My grandmother's grandmother was a young girl at the time and one of those children. The only story that was passed down to me about her was how the child had borne her change in status stoically. I know precious little of those who came before me. Literacy was never really necessary before the occupation and non-existent for the enslaved after. With no way to record their stories and families often being torn apart, I suppose it should surprise no one how little we knew.

My story really began before I was born, steeped in the history I did not know and born into a system constantly against me. There was nothing too fantastic about my conception, in spite of what some people have tried to say. The Maker crafted me as He does everyone, but I was conceived as many slave children are through violence.

My mother had been sold to the innkeeper as a teenager. Her face became a familiar one for the locals who came to the inn for company and warmth. She served ale and wine and did whatever else the innkeeper decided she must. My mother would never speak of it, but I was taunted enough to know that sometimes the innkeeper decided she would earn him extra gold with her body. But only if he was paid well enough. The occasional Magister who stayed briefly at our port paid well enough. I know that I am the bastard of a Magister; there was no magic in the line of my mother. What they had come to call the Blight had just ended. All of Thedas celebrated the death of the archdemon as soon as they heard. By the time my mother heard, months later, I was already growing in her womb. She felt relief that her unborn child might be subject to slavery, but would not have to fear darkspawn burning her village at any moment.

People have tried to romanticize this. My mother's difficult life, her rape, and even the fact that I was conceived around the same time the Blight ended. There is no romance in forced intimacy; there is no hope in a life such as that. How dare they disrespect my mother? From statements on her beauty, as if that justified the assault that led to my birth, to the idea that she did not suffer at all but welcomed the Maker Himself in the form of a man. My mother was a brave woman, all the more for raising me knowing what she knew.

It was not enough for my mother to have a too real understanding of what it means to be a slave and that her daughter would endure the same treatment. Her belly just starting to swell, the story goes that my mother lay beneath the stars in a meadow and the Maker came to her in a vision and laid the map of my life before her and she rejoiced at the change her daughter would bring.

There were no slave-quarters at the inn since she was the only one so when she was not sold off for the night, she would creep into whatever spare corner was available. Brona curled into a small ball near the stables. It was summer, and the inn was busy. She was not permitted to sleep inside when it was warm outside. Instead, the thin woman huddled against the side of the building, making herself as comfortable as possible in the filth and dirt. Her dress was supposed to be presentable for when she served drinks, so she had taken it off and lay only in her underdress and a ragged cloak, a weak layer against the soft mud.

The stars did shine, but she kept her dark eyes closed against them. They mocked her with their beauty and their freedom. Instead, Brona concentrated on her slightly rounded middle. This was her life, and what could she give to a child? Already she loved me and could not imagine keeping me from being born, but she felt that she would almost rather let me die than experience what she did. As dawn threatened to break, Brona finally dropped into a light doze and found herself in the Fade. She dreamed, but often did not remember it. This was different. Brona was aware of where she was and that her body no longer ached from the labor of the day. What's more was that she was not pregnant here. Confused and a little panicked, Brona trembled and desperately wished herself away.

"Fear not, young one."

Wringing her hands, Brona looked toward the voice to see a sweet-faced woman with an unblinking gaze. "Are-are you a demon?"

The answering laugh was like a bell. "No, young one. I am a Spirit of the Fade. Demons are spirits twisted by their desires. Just as demons personify vices, there are spirits who personify virtues. I am Compassion." The woman glowed a soft green, her eyes only that one luminous color, but somehow they were gentle. Suddenly, she was before Brona, a hand touching her cheek as delicately as a butterfly's wing.

"Why am I here?" Brona whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Where is my baby?"

Compassion's face saddened. "Come with me, my dear, and know that I feel for you." Accustomed to obeying, Brona followed the spirit through the maze of the Fade to see a tiny child dancing joyously. The child was solid, like Brona herself, clearly not a spirit. She was unsteady on her feet yet, and thick black curls tangled as she skipped about. A small ethereal cat frolicked with her. "Charity is watching over your little one."

"But she's—" Brona stopped watching as the toddler aged before her eyes and transformed into girl with serious eyes, petting a silver shimmering pony.

"Patience," Compassion murmured.

My mother was struck dumb as she observed the child age and grow, protected from taunting demons by Diligence and Temperance. She screamed when she saw the ghost of a man rape her teenage daughter while the girl struggled valiantly and begged though Brona could not hear a word she said. The girl crept from the village, bolstered by Diligence and Courage. For a moment, the slave woman felt joy as she saw her daughter find hope and friendship in the Alamarri tribes. Purpose and marriage followed, and for a moment, Brona could dream of a better life for her unborn child, for me. But as she watched my fate grow and change, aided by spirits of Justice, Humility, Widsom and Mercy, my mother could not keep the silent tears from slipping down her cheeks. When Mercy aided me one last time, my mother fell to the ground, and Compassion put her arms around her.

"Have courage, little mother. Your daughter will suffer, yes, but she will know love and joy and peace, too. We are watching her. We are not all-knowing, but we see the hand of the Maker upon the girl. She will have us, Brona, and your daughter will do great things."

My mother looked upon Compassion, her face now dry. "She will, and I shall be proud of her. And yet, what a mother wishes for their child is happiness, not greatness born of sorrows. I love her, and I grieve for her. Is this what you wanted, Compassion?"

Regret seemed to pour from the spirit in waves. "No, Brona. I know how it pains you. We had hoped that this knowledge would comfort you. Though her life is hard, there will be good from it. We will guide her and protect her, even when you cannot. Know this, young one."

My mother felt the Fade dissolve around her and woke where she had lain, in the mud.

Considering my mother was malnourished and small, it was surprising how easy my birth was. On the one occasion we discussed it, she told me that she knew that we had both survived only because of the spirits that had decided to watch over me. A healer for a slave was laughable, and my mother and I were not valuable enough to inconvenience the innkeeper if we died. There would be some disappointment for the money my mother earned and for the profit that could be had of selling an unspoiled girl-child, but that was not enough to even warrant my mother a room within the inn. Instead, she hid herself in the forest when she felt the birth pangs grow stronger. Near a clear stream warmed by the sun, my mother delivered me on her own, not daring to draw one of the few slave women in the town away from their work for fear of reprisals on both sides. Surely, it was only by the grace of the Maker that I lived.

But live I did.

When I stretch back into the recesses of my memory, there are small joys that a child can always find in the saddest places. On unsteady legs, I toddled out of the kitchen, away from the soot that irritated my skin and eyes. My mother was too busy trying to throw together the evening meal to pay any attention to me when I was quiet. The noise was almost overwhelming; the loud, gruff voices talking over one another, laughing drunkenly, singing even. But my curiosity would not be denied. I wandered through the crowd of legs without really comprehending what I was doing. All I knew was that I wanted to find that sound that was much more beautiful than anything else in my small world.

When I reached the little platform around which the tables were crowded, I stumbled and clumsily fell at the feet of the performer. Unafraid, I stared up into eyes as dark as my own, but not nearly as serious. The thin man laughed and set down his lute to lift me into his arms. I had never been held by anyone except my mother and stiffened slightly, but would not cry. Mother was distressed when I cried. His clothes were different from the other men in the bar, finer but sturdy, and meant for traveling but not for the hard labor of the general populace. Curiously, I fingered his blond hair, so different from the common black.

"You wish to be a bard, little mouse?" He asked me in a voice that was rich and warm. I could not help but answer his smile with one of my own, lighting my face with it.

"_Merry it is while summer lasts_

_With birds song_

_But now wind blasts_

_Oh, oh, but how long is night_

_And I very much long_

_For summer's light.*"_

Enraptured, I had listened to the haunting song and when he began again, I matched my childish voice to his. Our music soared across the bar as I instinctively harmonized to his deeper voice, easily repeating the words though I had only heard them once before. The room was silent as the last note faded, and though I could feel the eyes of everyone around me, I did not mind. I met their gaze with my own.

"Well done. I was wrong: you are not a mouse but a songbird," he told me kindly, noting my battered smock and how matted my black curls were. He stepped down from the stage, still carrying me. I wiggled now, uncomfortable with being carried. My mother stepped forward, drawn from her work by the sound of my voice.

"Mama," I murmured, holding my chubby arms out to her.

"Your daughter is very gifted, miss. You ought to consider sending her to school to become a bard. It is not an easy life, but it would be a good one."

I could not comprehend his words but knew somehow he was talking about me leaving my mother. I clutched her tightly as she clung to me in turn.

"You are very kind, ser, but our fate is not our own."

"Ah, you are slaves then. Perhaps your master would be willing to sell her to the guild. I shall-"

"No, ser, you misunderstand. We are slaves, but my daughter's fate has already been decided. Please, do not try to take her from me before her time," my mother pleaded softly. Sensing her distress, I glared reproachfully at my new friend.

"Peace, little bird. I believe you are denying your child a good future, but I will respect your wishes," the bard acknowledged. He was too kind-hearted to separate so small a girl from her mother.

"Thank you, ser. Please excuse us; we must return to the kitchen before we are missed." Mother scurried away before he could speak again, and when we were safely away, she loosened her grip on my small body. "Andraste, you must be more cautious. Not all men are as kind as that one. If you do not mind me, the master may treat us ill." As young as I was, I understood that concept.

"Yes, mama."

"That's a good girl. Now help me clean the kitchen before the master sees." We got to work, silently as she had taught me to do, but I would never forget my first taste of music.

Once, when I was five years old, I had a tantrum. You must understand, slave children are not given the luxury of tantrums. When you are afraid for your life and the life of your mother, there are simply more important things than throwing a fit, especially when it could draw unwanted attention. Still, such a young child has limits to their self-control.

"I don't want to be small anymore! It's not fair. If I were big, then I wouldn't let him hurt you," I said determinedly, stroking my mother's hair. She lay in front of the fire in the kitchen allowing her back to dry after I had bathed the wounds from our master's whip. Someone had tripped her in the bar, and she had stumbled, spilling ale and shattering mugs as she attempted to right herself. I had been obediently washing vegetables near the stables in the yard while my mother had been dragged from the eyes of others and beaten for being a clumsy, stupid woman. I had come in after he had left but soon enough to see the tears wet on my mother's face.

I saw the relief on her face that I had come back only after he had gone. She did everything she could to keep me from his notice. I had already bathed her back once before, and quickly fetched a bucket of water and the cleanest rag I could find, holding in my outburst until I had taken care of her.

"No, darling, no. Stay small as long as you can. When you are small, you can be overlooked. People will underestimate you."

My mother had made a point to learn the language of her betters, often speaking better than the master or most of the inhabitants of our village. She was a smart woman and picked up words and verbal habits from the wealthy men she entertained. Speaking well sometimes got her into trouble, but it more often than not protected her from the advances of the common man. She was trying to teach me the same thing.

"Un-underestimate?"

"It is when someone does not see your real worth. There is a story my mother told me. Would you like to hear it?"

I grinned and crawled into her lap after she sat up. "Yes, Mama."

She combed her fingers through my hair, soothing me as she began to tell the tale, "Once there was a little mouse. This mouse was full of mischief, and seeing a lion sleeping, the mouse ran up his tail and scampered all over the sleepy lion."

"Did the lion wake up?"

"He did, and he caught the little mouse in his great, big paw. 'How dare you wake me up?' the lion roared. 'Don't you know I could eat you in one bite?'"

"But he didn't," I interjected.

"The story would be very short if he did. The mouse pleaded with the lion to let him go, promising that he would do a favor for the lion in return some day. The lion laughed, because he didn't believe the mouse would be able to help him, but let him go anyway. Some time later, the lion was caught in a snare made by hunters. The more he struggled the more tangled the lion became in the trap. Angry and scared, the lion roared."

"And the mouse heard him? He came to help!"

"My clever girl is right. The mouse came and chewed through the ropes and freed the lion, saving his life. The lion underestimated the mouse, but look at what good the mouse could do for him."

"It's a good story," I murmured, snuggling into her warmth.

She didn't get a chance to respond. Our master stomped into the sooty room and glared at us both. "Brona, you have been bought for the night. Get up. Make yourself pretty if you can."

Frowning, I got to my feet. "No!"

His brows furrowed, and he turned his attention on me for the first time, as if he realized I was a girl and not a pet. "What did you say, slave?"

"No, my mother can't go! She's hurt, and she always comes back tired and sore afterwards. I won't let you take her," I told him firmly, standing in front of her protectively.

His eyes blazed, and he grabbed my wrist with bruising force. He lifted me up by just the one arm and stared into my tiny, rounded face. "You will learn to behave, slave, or you will be no use to me and a useless slave is a dead one."

My shoulder hurt so bad that I wanted to cry, but I kept my gaze focused on him. "You hurt her. She can't go." I had latched onto the concept and would yield.

The innkeeper threw me against the stone wall and watched with satisfaction as I crumpled to the ground.

Mother stepped between us. "Please, master, she's just a little child. I'll go and gladly, just please do not hurt the girl."

It was the wrong thing to say. I had already challenged him, and he would not tolerate interference from Brona as well. His half-formed thoughts solidified, and she shrank away from the cruelty in his eyes. "The girl will learn to obey." Our master pulled me to my feet, meeting little resistance. I was still too dazed from the contact with the wall. "I'm the master. Brona, I'm going beat your daughter, and then you're going to the lord. You don't get a choice. Ever. Get it?"

My mother could only murmur, "Yes, ser," and follow him out to the stump in the yard. He threw me over it and drew the whip from his belt.

"Slave," he barked.

I didn't respond. He lashed me, and I bit my lip. I refused to bend to him. My spirit was too unyielding.

"Slave!" Another stroke of the lash. "Slave!" The third drew a cry. I was small enough that the leather curled around my side after striking my back.

"Ser?"

Another kiss, hard enough to draw blood.

"Master," I gasped.

"Your mother is mine."

Five.

"You are mine."

Six.

"You will obey."

Seven.

Your mother will obey."

Eight.

"Whatever I want."

Nine.

Ten.

"Yes, Master," I said, unable to stop the scream that preceded my words.

"If you forget it, this will seem like playtime. Get upstairs, Brona," he ordered, tucking the whip into his belt.

Mother's eyes lingered on the angry welts peeking through the rips in my smock. She could not afford to comfort me then. She felt ill, remembering what the spirits had shown her. This was just the beginning of my trials. Trials that my mother could not save me from. The feeling of despair threatened to choke her, but she pushed it aside. She had almost forgotten what it was like to choose, and I had reminded her. But right now, she could save us both from another beating, and she choose to obey to do just that.

*Adapted from "_Merry It is_", A middle English song.


	3. Chapter 2: With My Head Held High

Author's Note: Fair warning, there is rape and multiple allusions to rape in this chapter. It is not too graphic, but earns the M rating. I am not obsessed with the topic, but I'm not naive enough to think that this wasn't just part of the life of a slave. Reader beware.

Chapter 2

With My Head Held High

My defiance had done what my mother had always feared. Our master, Ferrik the Innkeeper, no longer saw me as a helpless babe, but a rebellious slave who needed correction. It was better to begin young, before I had to the chance to develop habits of insubordination. After all, when someone cannot remember ever having freedom, it is easier to keep them from ever having it. My lessons began the very next day. My mother had yet to emerge from the second floor, but Ferrik entered the kitchen for the second time in my short life.

"Rise when your better enters a room," he barked, kicking me in the ribs to emphasize it.

I scrambled to my feet, but kept my back ramrod straight and looked him in the eye. Something about my steady gaze seemed to unnerve him. I gasped at the stinging sensation of the back of his hand on my cheek.

"Keep your eyes on the floor, slave!"

I said nothing, but neither did I comply. Something in me prompted me to hold my ground. My mother came into the small room in time to see my legs give out at the force of his slap. She knew better than to speak this time, but could not keep her face impassive as she watched me pull myself to my feet again.

"You've been remiss, woman. Your brat thinks herself free. Only one kind of buyer wants an unbroken girl-child. You can either teach her right and she'll replace you in time, since you are getting ragged, or that's where she'll go." He grabbed my mother's chin and forced her to meet his eyes briefly. "You don't want that, do you?"

I didn't understand what kind of buyer he meant, but knew that he meant to sell me away from my mother. I couldn't let that happen. She needed me. Looking from my mother's terrified face to the rotund giant who owned us, I made a decision. I would do what I could to stay with my mother, keep her safe, even if that meant playing along, looking at the floor. Ferrik would never know the difference or care if I really gave up or if I just pretended. I would play his stupid game until I could get us both away.

"Yes, Master," my mother answered, flinching when he drew his bruising hand away.

"Good. Get the breakfast slop ready. If it is late, you'll feel my lash." He left us behind, scrambling to put together the thin porridge the inn offered to break the nightly fast.

Throughout the next couple years, my mother carefully kept me away from any other living person. My whole world was the inn's kitchen and the chores that kept us busy from dawn until dusk. It seemed that every time I turned around my mother was correcting my behavior.

"Eyes on the floor, Andraste."

"Do not speak unless spoken to, child."

"Walk more quickly, Andraste."

"Darling, don't give me that look. A slave should remain meek."

Above everything, I was to draw no attention. Let them underestimate me. Be a shadow. But I was no rogue. It went against my nature, and still I persevered. On the rare occasions that I came in contact with others and made a mistake my mother or I or both of us were flogged. It hurt certainly, and yet what deterred me from letting my mask slip was the look on my mother's face. I hated to disappoint her.

"Mother, what do you know about the barbarian tribes?" I asked, diligently scrubbing the hearth at the end of the evening.

She glanced up from where she was cleaning the mugs in the washing tub. Exasperation was clear on her face. "Have you been listening at the door again, Andraste?"

"Don't lecture me, Mama. It's the only way I can learn _anything_," I told her a little melodramatically.

"One would think you already had your monthlies," she muttered so low I could barely hear. I made a face at her that drew a laugh. "What did you hear?"

"Someone said that the tribes are getting restless, and it's making him nervous. The other one said that there was no way the army would let the tribes get close to the village, but his friend argued that the army had suffered too much from the blight to do any real good if the tribes decided to take over," I paraphrased, scratching my nose and covering it in ash in the process.

Mother was quiet for a moment processing what I had said. For a brief moment, I saw hope flash across her face, but it was quickly quashed. "The Alamarri tribes are the people who lived here long before the Imperium came calling. Our village was once part of a tribe that fought the occupation. Our ancestors were not Tevinter at all, but Alamarri. That's where we get our black hair and our brown eyes. That's why we are so pale compared to the visitors from Tevinter proper."

"Why hasn't Tevinter conquered the southlands?"

"The Imperium is very big; they can only spare so many soldiers, particularly because of the Blight."

"But the Blight's been over for ten years!" We had already found that it was very easy to keep track of my age because of this. Everyone knew how long it had been since the archdemon was killed.

"It will take much longer than that for the Imperium to regain their strength. The tribes must know that and have been testing the borders of the territory from what our patrons have been saying," she explained.

"Are they really barbaric?"

She snorted. "I don't know, child. Dangerous certainly, and very different from Tevinters, but I do know that they do not keep slaves."

My eyes widened. It had never occurred to me that there was a place where everyone was free. Where perhaps we could be free, too. She read the idea on my face before I could open my mouth. "Do not consider it," she snapped, waving her hand at me and spraying me with water. "Even if we could leave the village without being recaptured and possibly killed, how can you be certain that the tribe would not kill us? I cannot hunt; we do not know the safe food in the forest to forage. No weapons or the ability to use weapons. Put it away for another time, child."

I pursed my lips into a stubborn line, but nodded. There was a lot to think about before we ran, but I was determined to go. I could store food away; maybe even steal a dagger and secret it away. We _would_ escape.

I knew that there was a limited number of items that I could swipe from the kitchen. If I was going to stash enough provisions, I would need to find some way to get more without anyone noticing. After a few days, the idea came to me. Night had fallen, and a visiting bard had begun to sing. The music charmed me as always, but this time it was more. I saw it as a means to an end. My mother had stepped into the bar to serve drinks, leaving me to clean the remains of supper. It was the perfect opportunity.

I stepped up to the tub and hurriedly washed my exposed skin, skinny arms, knobby knees and my bare, blackened feet. My hair curled wildly; there was nothing for it or my threadbare dress. I was as presentable as I was going to be. Back straight, I slipped through the seated crowd, short enough to go unnoticed until I began to sing.

My voice rang strong and clear with the bard's, easily following the simple melody. It was a common song, and one I had heard several times through the wall. This performer's voice was rather thin, for all the he played the lute well, so he faded off as mine grew to encompass the room. It was a merry song, and I kept my tone light as I ascended the stage.

"_Man in the moon stands and strides;  
On his boatfork his burden he bears.  
It is a great wonder that he down does not slide;  
For fear, lest he fall, he shudders and veers.  
When the frost freezes, much chill he bides.  
There's no-one in the world who knows when he sits,  
Unless it be the hedge, what clothes he wears  
Whither, think you, has this man gone?  
He has set one foot in front of the other,  
In any height he's reached, I have never seen him shaken;  
He is the slowest man that ever was born.*"_

I caught my mother's eyes on the last word and grinned at her. Her face was pale, but she did not dare draw me down now. The risk and reward was entirely upon me. If I had thought it through, I would have hoped that the master would be pleased by the extra coin I was bringing with my voice between the tipping and the added drinks as people stayed to listen. Honestly, I never gave the master that much thought. Instead, I was mentally ticking off the items that might be of use that were scattered throughout the room. One man had thrown a coil of rope at his feet. Another leaned back so far in his chair that his boot-knife's hilt poked up promisingly. This would work if only I could find a way to traverse the room as I sang; and if I were a better pickpocket. The bard shared a grin with me and pulled out a simple flute and struck up another tune. A sad one this time about tragic love and pining from afar. We had the attention of the entire room as we switched to yet another tune but a lively one this time. This was my chance. I slipped through the room still holding onto the song, loading empty mugs and refuse onto a tray, swiping a few items in the process. The patrons were torn between following me with their eyes and watching the bard. As the flute's refrain came to a close, I made my way for the kitchen door, only to be blocked by my master.

His eyes were hard. "Do your chores, slave."

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes to the floor with difficulty. The part I played was not an easy one, and I prayed to the Maker that he would not notice the dagger beneath the refuse or the bits of foodstuff that were not quite past edible. My mother said not a word to be as she watched me carefully hide the items in a bucket full of rags by one of the cupboards. I felt her disapproval, but refused to acknowledge it. We both knew that if the master decided to be displeased with my forwardness that it would be a painful morning for the both of us. It would be worth it, I promised myself. Freedom would be worth it.

"Slave," Ferrick barked from the door, well after our usual patrons finished off the morning's porridge.

"Master," I murmured, fixing my eyes on my toes.

"Every night there is music, you'll sing. You won't leave off on your kitchen duties and you'll clear up the bar when you do. Understand me?"

I looked up at him in shock. Someone must have said something or perhaps he had noticed the increase in his coffers last night because of me. I had escaped a beating, but he wasn't acknowledging that I had done something well. That I had helped his business. It got my back up. "Why can you not just give me a little praise? I sing well enough that they stay longer than they would have, drink more than they planned. Is it so hard to say, 'good job, Andraste,'" I demanded, hands on my hips. Mother had told me once that pride comes before a fall, and she was right. My face made acquaintance with the back of his hand once again, and I fell to the floor.

"You don't know your place-"

"My place?" I shot back from the floor. "I am not a slave. Not really. I will not stop thinking for myself; and you will never be able to really break me. I'm a child, but you fear that which you don't understand and you don't understand me. How can you stand there and treat me like an animal, a disobedient mabari? If you had a daughter would you want her to be treated the way you treat me? Your sister the way you treat my mother? Maker help you see that we are _people_ and worthy of respect because we are."

He gaped at me as I rose with my head held high. Such was his shock, that I ran from the room without further abuse. My heart pounded beneath my ribs as my words seemed to echo in my head. What had I been thinking? Where had that come from? He was going to make us pay for that, and I could only pray it wasn't too steep a price. Where had that come from?

Terrified, I fled over the hill behind the inn, for the first time seeing what lay beyond. A field of trees, heavy with red fruit. Apples. We had served them in the inn once or twice in a pie or dried bits in the porridge. I had never gotten the chance to taste one before and the foliage was nice and thick, the branches low enough for even undersized me to grab them. With little grace, I fought my way up a likely tree as high as I could go. The bark was rough under my hands, but nothing against my callouses. The fresh scent of the leaves was comforting and the first bite of the fruit was enough to make me cry. So sweet and tart and crisp. The flavor was unlike anything I had had before, and I resolved that when we were free, Mother and I would eat apples every day of our lives.

We _would_ be free. Perched in the tree, I thought of my little stash and how it would soon grow. No matter what Ferrick did to us, he wouldn't be able to keep us forever. I tried to imagine his face when he realized we were gone for good and giggled. It wouldn't be long, and then Mother would never have to spend the night with a stranger again. She never spoke of it, but I knew that it wasn't something good. Relaxed and feeling fully safe for the first time in recent memory, my eyelids drooped and I dozed off, secure on the thick branches that protected me.

_"Andraste." _

_I opened my eyes and jumped, startled by my surroundings. There were no trees, no orchard, but small purple hills and flowing mist. The world dissolved around me, and I was standing in the yard of the inn, older but not much taller. Disbelieving, I ran my hands over my body, feeling the firmness and the curves that hadn't been there moments before. A short laugh drew my attention, and I looked up to see a sturdy man in rough clothing before me. He had a sword strapped to his back, but I was not afraid. _

_"Who're you?"_

_"I am from one of the tribes to the south. Sister, why do you sit and allow the man who claims to be your master rule you?"_

_Shame made me flush. "I do not; I am fighting back in the only way I know how. My mother and I will join you soon, I swear it." _

_"It's not enough, sister. You let them hurt her in so many ways." In a flash, I saw my mother's hopeless face as a unrecognizable man mouthed it. _

_"I don't know what else to do," I cried, my heart like a stone in my chest. "I'm not strong enough."_

_"I can help you. You can use my strength, and you will never be beaten again," he offered, a sinister edge creeping into his voice. _

_Uneasy, I questioned, "How?"_

_"Take my hand," he ordered, holding it out to me. _

_I hesitated and drew away. "No. I-I don't know you. My mother told me that there is always a price to pay, and I don't know what it is yet."_

_"Don't dither, girl. Do you want them to torture her more?" Another vision of my mother, squirming and screaming, trapped against the wall. _

_"No!" I turned away from it, but not before I saw the crack in his façade. The hand had turned a deep purple and covered in spikes. "Demon, stay back!" The barbarian faded as the creature grew to tower over me. Red eyes glared at him beneath wicked horns. _

_"Do you think you can resist me when you cannot escape that lowly human?" It snarled, swiping at me. _

_With the screech of metal on metal, two spirits appeared before me, swords raised to intercede. My scream died in my throat. _

_"Begone, demon," the silver knight ordered, brandishing his weapon. _

_"The lady said no. You will not have her." The bronze solider shielded me with his arm. I had never seen a face that was sterner._

_"Fools. Mortals are weak. Protect her now, but someday she will succumb to us," the demon spat, fading from view. _

_"You have courage, lady," the bronze solider commented. They turned to face me, and I realized that I could see the inn through them. _

_"Who are you?" I asked, squaring my shoulders. They had protected me, but I knew I was in the Fade now and could not trust everything that I saw. _

_"You would know me best as Temperance," said the soldier, his expression a little wry. _

_ "I am Diligence," the knight answered, sheathing his sword. _

_"I have never heard of any stories about virtuous spirits helping people in the Fade," I told them, still a little suspicious. _

_"You are to the point, mortal," Diligence muttered. "Are you not glad that we did?" _

_"Oh! Don't misunderstand me. I am thankful, but I don't know why." I stubbornly held onto the subject, sensing that there was more here than I knew. _

_"Let us just say that we have an interest in you," Temperance responded. _

_I wrinkled my nose. "That tells me nothing. Why?"_

_"Enough of this. Mortal-"_

_"Andraste," I corrected. _

_Diligence shook his head. I believed that I had exasperated the spirit and that amused me. "Andraste, be satisfied knowing that we are watching over you. If you have need of help, call on us."_

_"But practice temperance," the self-said spirit said, not bothering to conceal his satisfaction at using the phrase. _

_I laughed. "Isn't it said that one should not look a gift horse in the mouth?" _

_"And why is that," Diligence questioned curiously. When I merely giggled, he rolled his eyes. "Mortals. Off with you, Andraste, before you get in any more trouble." _

I woke with a start, screeching as I overbalanced on the branch and tumbled to the ground. I landed in a heap, too dazed to move.

"Are you okay?" A young face leaned over mine. I did not recognize the other little girl, but then I had never met a girl my age before. Most parents did not bring their young daughters to the inn, and as a slave I never really got the chance to socialize.

I took a deep breath and gingerly tested all my limbs. They responded well if a little sluggishly. I had been very lucky. After I had reassured myself, I observed the other girl. We looked enough alike that we could have been sisters. Her hair was black and eyes dark brown just like mine. If I was smaller and had an air of delicacy that she did not, it was probably because I was not well-nourished. Her hands were smoother than mine, and my hair was curlier, but the differences ended there. I reasoned that she was probably descended from the tribes too, but I knew looking at her neat if well-used dress that she was no slave.

"I'll be okay," I told her after a moment. She had returned my stare, no doubt taking in the many holes in my garment and my dirty face.

"What were you doing in our tree?" She cocked her head to the side as she asked.

"I like to climb trees," I said by way of explanation. Somehow, it did not seem right to tell her that I was hiding from my master.

Her rounded face lit up. "Me, too, but Mother won't let me climb anymore. She says I've got to learn to be a good farmer's wife." The other girl made a face.

"But you are too young to get married," I protested. "Aren't you?"

"I'll be ten next week," she announced. "How old are you?"

"Ten."

"But you're smaller than me!" I could only shrug. "Well, Mother says its best to learn sooner than later. What's your name anyway?"

"Andraste."

"Oh, I'm Flora." She tilted her head again when she heard my stomach growl. "You're hungry. Ought you get home for mid-day?"

"We don't eat dinner," I told her, blushing.

Her eyes reminded me of a bird with how inquisitive they were. "Oh, are you very poor then?"

I could feel the heat of my face and desperately wished to stop this line of questioning. "Yes" was my curt response.

"Oh, that's okay then. You can eat as many apples as you like. We always have plenty," Flora offered, as if she had not just given me the moon and the stars.

"Thank-Thank you," I stumbled over my words, a little stunned.

"Flora, come back inside. It's time to practice your sewing," a warm voice called over the orchard. Flora sighed.

"That's Mother. I have to go. Will you come back and play with me sometime," she asked, flicked her long hair over her shoulder.

"I'll try," I told her, but she hadn't waited for my response and was already off running. I gathered as many apples as I could carry and hid them at the top of the hill, pledging to put them in the bucket after Ferrick had gone to bed. I was so distracted by the events of the day, that all through my beating I processed it.

I barely felt the lash as I contemplated the existence of good spirits. Why did they want to help me? Was there something they expected? Then my cache and how the apples would make that much of a difference. Finally, my mind was occupied with Flora. It had never occurred to me that I might make a friend. I was certain that Mother did not have any, and her other siblings had been sold away long ago. I was the only person in the world that she cared about. I wasn't sure how to be a friend, had no example before me, but I was excited to try!

Over the next month, I crept away to the orchard whenever I could. Most of the time Flora was nowhere to be found, but we did get to meet about three times. Mostly, she chattered, talking about the trials of becoming a proper farmer's wife or stories about her brothers. I absorbed all of the information like a sponge, eager to learn what life was life outside of my little sphere. The love of her parents was not so strange to me, but the mixture of fear and adoration for her father was a new concept. That she was never truly hungry was a shock to me. I knew that not everyone lived as I did, but I just could not imagine not having that hollow feeling that was my constant companion. She did not seem put off that I did not talk much, but seemed to respect me for how well I articulated my questions, even if some of my questions gave her pause.

Unfortunately, it could not last. The Harvest Festival had come, bringing all the outlying farmers and craftsmen into our town to trade and socialize. It was the biggest festival of the year, and our village was practically bursting with all the visitors. Even merchants Tevinter proper would come, eager to sell their wares to farmers who were buying what they needed for the coming winter. The town also celebrated the anniversary end of the Blight during the course of the festival with stories, songs, and skits. The inn was so busy, that when Mother and I were not working, we needed to be out of the building. Ferrick hired a proper cook for the week every year, and she would sleep in the kitchen but not with slaves. Still, she took great joy in ordering me about, constantly sending me to the stalls for this piece of fruit or that type of meat. I was single-mindedly trudging back after once such errand when I heard a familiar voice.

"Andraste!"

I turned with a smile, seeing Flora waving at me from across the commons. I waved to her, careful to balance the basket properly so as not to spill. Four others girls were crowded around Flora, all holding apples balanced on sticks covered with a brown coating. As Flora approached me, their faces took on a look of horror.

"Flora," one of them hissed, not five feet away from me. "Are you crazy? She's a slave!"

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and I could see the uncertainty on her face. "What?"

"Can't you tell," the tallest one scoffed, tossing back her blonde hair. It was so out of place in our village that I knew her family was probably from another part of the Imperium. "I mean, look at those rags! It's indecent!"

I glanced down at my ragged dress. It was true; I was growing, and it hadn't been replaced. The hem inched up my thighs while the holes about the shoulders threatened to allow it to fall off me entirely any moment. As true as her statement was, I flushed with humiliation.

"She's-she's poor," Flora murmured with a frown.

"My mother says that her mother is the village whore. Does bad stuff with men for money," one of the youngest informed the others.

"'Stuff.' Touching men she doesn't know. Probably enjoys it, too," laughed the blonde, before turning her calculating eyes on me. "Every village must have a whore, I suppose, and this slave will be the next one."

My mortification was replaced with anger. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my temper. I still had very little understanding of what went on upstairs, but I knew that it made my mother miserable. She always scrubbed herself raw afterwards, no matter how cold the water was. Even if I didn't know what 'whore' meant, I knew an insult when I heard one. My mother's training and my own common sense told me to walk away. That this would only cause trouble.

Flora looked from the villager girls to me, taking in the vast difference between them and myself. "You lied to me," she accused harshly. "I-I never would've talked to you if I knew. You were using me for the apples, weren't you? Lazy slave!" She drew herself up, looming over me. Her slap was not as hard as Ferrick's, but much more painful.

The blonde's eyes glinted. "Trying to ape her betters, was she, Flora? And a dirty little thief."

That was enough. I lifted my chin up defiantly. "How can I, when there is no one around for me to ape? I am a slave, at least for now, but I will not always be. However, you lot are spiteful cats, and perhaps you will always be." I turned my attention on my former friend. "Using you for apples, Flora? No. I will not pretend that I didn't appreciate those, but you offered them freely. And my mother may be a whore, but keep in mind that your father is planning to sell you into marriage for a dowry. If given the choice, my mother would never do this, but you are letting them sell you to a stranger, an _old one_. So who is the real whore?"

Their shock was enough to allow me to escape with my dignity. I ran back to the inn as quickly as my short and skinny legs would carry me. My victory was short lived, and my relief even shorter. No sooner had I stepped through the door when the temporary cook seized the basket from my hands. I stood stock still as she examined the contents.

"Stupid slave! Idiot girl! You forgot the onions!" She boxed my ears, a nice change of pace compared to the the hand to the face I usually received. I knew for a fact that she hadn't actually told me to retrieve any, but there was no use arguing the point. She emptied the basket before thrusting it back into my arms. "You'll just have to go back and get them." Thinking of the girls, I desperately wanted to refuse, but that was yet another fight that I wouldn't win. Perhaps if I were lucky, I could avoid then.

I wasn't lucky.

I managed to slip through the crowd unnobserved, retrieving the onions and was on the outskirts of the stalls, when I finally allowed myself to breath. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of, how they would retaliate, but I could remember the look in the Tevinter's eye. It made me nervous. On the other hand, the front of the inn was just before me. All I had to do was slip through the back. . .

Suddenly, pain erupted from my side, and I felt my body go flying into the inn's wall. I looked up at my attacker from where I lay in a crumpled heap. It was a blonde boy-almost a man really-and beside him was the Tevinter girl, one other girl I recognized, another boy, and Flora. Quickly, I assessed the situation. I was hopelessly outnumbered, but I didn't really expect the girls to do much fighting. Still, two on one was not promising, especially when the Tevinter boy was almost twice my height and more than double my weight. He had won the wrestling competition the day before and was said to be joining the Imperium's army. It seemed hopeless, but surely they would not expect a slave to resist. I was also fairly confident that I could outsmart them.

"My sister says that you've been getting above yourself, wench." The fair boy scowled at me, intending, no doubt, to strike fear into my heart.

"She called Flora a whore, Marcus. Didn't she, Flora?" Her blues eyes reminded me of ice, cold and hard. It was almost a relief when she looked at Flora for support.

"Yes," my former friend said a little reluctantly. The idea that she didn't completely agree gave me some amount of solace. A little.

"Rich coming from this one. Little bastard girl. The whole reason you exist is because your mother is one," he told me, coldly.

I stiffened. For a long time growing up, it had never occurred to me to ask about my father. I didn't know any other children, had no other examples before me, so it just never crossed my mind that anyone had more than just a mother. After Flora's instructive conversations, I didn't want to bring it up for fear of making my mother more miserable than she already was. Somehow, I knew that how I came into being was a sensitive topic for her. Let's face it; I was completely naive. My mother had gone to great lengths to keep me sheltered from as much as she could for as long as she could. I did not know how babies were born. I had seen pregnant women on occasion in the village. Once I had just thought them well fed, then I dare not ask how the baby came to be in the womb. As starved as my mind was, I could not ask for elaborations now.

Silence did not seem to be an appropriate response. Like a possum, I remained on the ground in a jumble. The other boy, dark like me, took a fistful of my hair and dragged me upright. He shook me roughly, and I could feel clumps of my hair rip from my scalp. He slapped me, whipping my head back and forth with the force. Marcus crushed the bones in my left wrist, but I breathed through the pain. I had been beaten worse than that. My lack of response must have infuriated them, because they only escalated. A punch in the stomach stole my breath, another in the ribs sent me reeling. The stab of pain in my ankle told me that I had been kicked. I hugged my arms around my middle, favoring one ankle. _Be a mouse_, I reminded myself.

"Please," I begged, keeping my eyes down so they would not see the calculation within. I was a tiny, eleven year old girl, no match for a great big boy of fifteen; their relaxation was obvious. I now understood the value of underestimation. My heart thudded in my chest, once, twice, three times, and I struck.

Foot to groin faster than a blink of an eye and again before he could drop to his knees in pain. The top of my foot was sore from the impact, but the adrenaline was already flooding through me. It deadened the pain that I already felt. I ducked a wild punch from the blonde, sidestepping so that I was behind him. My elbow met the small of his back. The consolation to the stars I saw was the curses that were pouring from him mouth. Before I could second guess myself, I shoved my palm against his nose with all my strength, breaking it and effectively taking him out of commission. Stepping back, I straightened my spine the best I could under the circumstances. Silently, I challenged the girls. They could try to hit me or scream for help. I was ready.

But they did nothing.

My eyes burned with a quiet fire, and I walked away one more time. With everything that I was, I refused to collapse until I had made it into the door.

The cook glanced at me and screamed, "Damn you, slave, where are my onions?"

I had learned my lesson. Perhaps if there were an abundance of slaves in the village, I could have made a friend and the course of my life would have changed. Not that there is any point in considering the 'what-ifs'. As it stood, I would be content with my mother and spend every spare thought on how I would orchestrate our escape and what would happen afterward. I had heard the gossip of others since some apparently believed that someone could not sing and listen at the same time. The barbarians were dangerous; some said to even eat their own children. Ten feet tall, shooting beams of magic from their eyes. The standard that legends were made of. It was a little terrifying, and yet I knew they could not be all of those things. I figured that at their worst, it would still be better than this. I kept that thought firm in my mind the next couple of years. I needed to. After what the others had said, I paid closer attention to my mother and what happened to her. She refused to talk about it, but we both knew I would find out sooner rather than later. I suppose it was only my small size and my under-developed body that kept me safe for so long. Still, by my fourteenth year, I had some semblance of a feminine figure. Though I was still petite, I at least came up to the chest of most men. That apparently was good enough.

Ferrick had come to the realization that my voice was worth my keep five times over. Every night I sang, more people came into the bar, stayed there longer, and bought more ale and food. That kept him from selling me as soon as he could find a buyer. I was just too valuable to his business. Fortunately, I enjoyed singing and was able to continue pocketing anything I found useful. My cache had been moved to an empty barrel by the stables, supposedly half-full of potatoes. There was enough secreted away to ensure our survival for a good month, but still I hesitated. I thought myself too young and experienced to be able to take care of my mother in the wilderness until we found a tribe to take us in. Waiting a little longer for me to learn more, perhaps become more physically fit to protect us, would not hurt anything.

I was disturbingly wrong.

Late one evening, I stepped from the stage and smiled my thanks at the latest roving bard. He had played well, and it was been a real pleasure to sing with his music. I had been so caught up in the ballad, that I actually hadn't thought to steal anything. At least the night wasn't a total loss. My previous dress had been unusable even for rags, and knowing that I was performing, Ferrick had given me a new one. Well, not new precisely, but there weren't any holes or visible stains, and the dark blue was pretty even if it was faded. The master had insisted that I wash my face and neaten up my hair before going into the bar, but I missed the effect it had on the crowd of men and women. Meshed in my charade, my eyes were trained on the floor like the obedient slave many assumed I was. I hid my real thoughts and feelings behind the mask, sometimes from my own mother. But it was a mask, and one that shattered when I entered the room that smelled eternally of grease and smoke.

"Mother?" She was on her knees, crying and begging at Ferrick's feet.

"Please, Master, please, don't do this. She's only a little girl, a child." My mother was entreating him passionately, and I knew at once it was about me.

"What's going on?" I demanded, too upset to bother turning from gaze from Ferrick's.

"You have been bought for the night," he told me, shaking my mother off of his legs. I started when he slapped her hard across the face.

I straightened my back. Part of me had known that this was coming. I was terrified and did not know what to expect, but I could comfort myself that at least my mother would be safe from it-whatever it was. At the very least, I was confident that it was something that I could survive. Perhaps it was finally time to tell my mother my escape plans. If I was old enough for my monthlies and old enough to be sold off, surely I was old enough to traverse the forests. I was a survivor. I just had to remember that.

Ferrick led me back out to the bar where a man was clearly waiting for us. He was round and balding, a merchant from his clothing, that had done a little trading in our village and was heading back north. Fingers that reminded me of sausages caressed my wrist. My mask hid my disgust, but could not suppress my shudder. The repulsive man actually licked his lips, eyes glinting.

"Messere, surely you are looking someone with a little more _experience_," my mother cooed, slipping between us. I almost didn't recognize her. Her face was clear of dirt and softened by a little bee's wax. Her hair was smooth and shining-oil I knew-and as luxuriously black and thick as ever. Her lips were reddened-she must have been biting them-and a little soot was pressed on her eye lids to darken them. Her body leaned towards the man, her curves on display.

The fellow smirked, running a thumb over her lips. "Perhaps I shall have you both."

If I did not know her better than anyone in the world, I would have missed the panic in her eyes. It disappeared behind a smolder. She took his thumb in her mouth briefly. "Ah, but, messere, the _child_ is not nearly so skilled with her mouth as me. It is true she would never forget a night with you, but _you_ will never forget a night with _me." _

My stomach turned. I understood what she was doing now. My mother, Maker help her, was trying to draw the man away from me to her.

"But surely such a treasure would be more expensive, yes," he asked, distracted completely by the older woman's assets.

I could practically see Ferrick's happy dance, but he kept his voice level. "Only a sovereign more. A bargain really, I just thought she might be a bit rich for you, Ser." He knew just the words to say. There was nothing in the world that would keep him from my mother now. The merchant had something to prove.

"Nothing is too rich for me, ser. Come, temptress." My mother cast a quick glance at me as she followed him. I recognized the shame and the pleading, but did not understand why. She was trying to protect me again, and I could do nothing but respect her.

"You were lucky, girl. He's got a reputation for viciousness. You won't always be that lucky. You'll be making me money soon enough." I paled. Ferrick's short "Back to the kitchen" was one order that I followed readily. I sat in the dark, keeping vigil for my mother. I couldn't sleep, because my mind kept conjuring all the ways I could imagine him hurting her. I was a horrible daughter. I couldn't keep letting her do this for me. _Selfish, stupid slave_, I castigated myself. When she finally stumbled through the door, the sky was just beginning to lighten, hinting at the coming dawn.

"Mother!" I scrambled off of the upturned bucket I had commandeered and went to grip her shoulders. She trembled beneath my fingers. All of my terror melted into the one word, "Mama?"

"Andraste," she whispered, pressing her palm to my face. "I-I need to sit, darling." Her body began to fold, but I held her up until she was before the hearth. With ease of long practice, I poked at the embers until they grew into proper flames and gasped. Her face was covered in bruises in varying shades of purple. A swollen nose, split lip._ Dear Maker._ I ran my hands over her limbs, trying to assess the damage. Rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Whip marks, of course, but also the bruising from some blunt force. Bite marks that had drawn blood on her neck and shoulders. Elsewhere I was sure, but she would not remove her gown. It did little good. I knew that the stains at her hips were not from her back wounds.

"Mama. You can't keep doing this! You can't handle it forever," I told her, trying to make her understand.

"I will protect you, my little Andraste, my songbird, for as long as I can." My heart broke under the weight of her words, but I could not argue with her.

"I have to stop the bleeding." I stayed calm, easily cleaning and bandaging the lashes. It was the growing pool of blood that alarmed me. "Mother? I have to lift your skirt."

"Don't, child. This isn't a wound that you can bandage. It's on the inside," she told me, her eyes drooping and glazed from blood loss.

I shook my head. "No, no, I have to stop it!" Her eyes closed and intensified my panic. "No! Mama, please, wake up. You can't sleep now." I had never felt so helpless before in my life. Her face had paled to an alarming whiteness. "Mama." I clenched my fists and buried my face against her neck. _Diligence, Temperance, spirits of the Fade_,_ I have never __asked you for anything, in spite of your offer. Hear me now. Please, help my mother. I don't know how, but please, don't let her die in my place. Please. _

Warmth swelled in my chest. It was almost like I had taken a deep breath and filled my lungs with sunlight. It tingled and made me acutely aware of every inch of my body. Opening my eyes, I saw my hands glow a gentle green.

_Be calm_, _little one_, a voice whispered in my mind. I knew at once that it was no demon, no twisted being could be so kind and sincere.

"Why are you?"

_I have watched over you, and because you asked, I will watch over your mother. You are a mage, Andraste, and will be a great one. A Spirit Healer. _

_I can't, _I argued. _I have no magic. _

_Silly girl, what are you doing now? I am giving you strength and direction, untrained as you are, but _you_ are healing your mother. My brothers told you that we are prepared to help you, and we will._

_Who are you?  
_

_Charity.  
_

"Thank you," I murmured and watched the bruises disappear, the swelling subside. The blood was still a garish streak on the floor, but I knew that no more was being added to it. Mother's eyes flickered open, wearily taking in the fact that I-me!-was wielding magic. "Mama, I'm so sorry. You'll never have to do this again. I've been saving supplies for years. We can escape and find one of the tribes. As soon as you're well, we can go. I can take care of us with my magic!"_  
_

My frantic whisper did not seem to impress her. "No, Andraste."

Her quiet words could not have surprised me more. "What? But, Mother, we could escape! I've been preparing-"

"Andraste."

"Really, Mother, I can protect us both. We'll find a tribe or build a cottage of our own. Just so we're away from this place." I kept my voice low, afraid of the repercussions of our discussion. The glow on my hand faded. I could still feel the well of magic, waiting to do my bidding, but without the peaceful presence of Charity.

"I will not go." She closed her eyes again. Her face was still grey, even with the light of the dying fire.

"I know all they say about the barbarians can't be true. None of the men could ever hurt you again." I could not conceal my desperation or my confusion. Why didn't she want to go? Didn't she understand? I brushed her hair behind her ear tenderly. Perhaps, when her mind was clearer. . .

It didn't make a difference. She refused to go, but would never tell me why. I could sense how the discussion hurt her, and yet I was persistent. Every chance I got, I brought it up. Besides the firm "no," she never said anything on the topic. One topic she waxed eloquently about was the hiding and control of my magic. I could not fault her there. If Ferrick found out, he would waste no time in selling me for as much gold as possible to one of the far away Magister lords. That was absolutely the last thing I wanted. Now, when I wandered the Fade, I had more control. The spirits came to me often, always teaching me this or that about my magic, theories and spells. It was their instruction that helped me master the art of using fire with my gift. It was my favorite element to work with. I loved the heat and the colors. The spirits also taught me the finer points of healing, and more importantly the revulsion spells of creation magic. I had no staff, could not rely on one to help or focus me, so I made due. Looking back, that exercise helped me gain the sort of concentration and strength that I would not have learned if I had one. I found the revulsion spells particularly useful, deterring anyone from touching my mother or me. For three years, this worked. Against rich merchants, famous soldiers or Imperium officials, my spells were effective. We cooked, cleaned, did all manner of chores, and I sang, but no one was willing to buy us for the night. It was a small victory. At least I had some satisfaction while I endeavored to convince my mother.

Three years. For three years, not a single Magister that could suspect what I was came. Our backwater, fishing town just was not very attractive for the men who loved their stone palaces and elven slaves. We had the occasional mage, certainly, but I was better at hiding than they were at seeking, even if they had reason to do so. And I made sure they didn't. It couldn't last forever.

I don't know why this Magister came to our village. Honestly, I do not care. All that matters was that he came. As pathetic as our inn was to his standards, there was no other place to stay. As foul as he found our wine to be, it was better than water that smelled of fish. As inept as the flute player was compared to his host of entertainers at his fingertips in his villa, at least my voice soothed his nerves.

The stage had become a place of safety and peace for me. I kept hoping that if the villagers saw me often enough, heard me often enough, noted the emotion in my voice often enough, perhaps someone would start to see us as people as opposed to slaves. I sang with my whole heart that night, telling a tale of love torn apart by circumstances. Perhaps if they saw the prejudices of the two families, my listeners would recognize the prejudices in their own lives. Idealistic, silly even, but I was seventeen and as sheltered as my mother could manage. Innocent.

_Dear Maker._

I am sure at some point in the night my eyes met his. Magister Caius Clovem. I thought eye contact was key in reminding them that I was a real person. Perhaps it was. It did not have that effect on Magister Caius. Ferrick was waiting for me with him when the song ended. I loosed a repulsion spell, dropping into a curtsy as I passed by, but Caius gripped my arm like his fingers were made of steel.

"You are mine tonight, slave," he hissed, drawing me uncomfortably close to him. Panic began to plant seeds in my belly. Holding it off, I cast another spell, stronger this time. His answer was a powerful backhand. I cried out. It had been years since anyone had touched me unkindly. "Foolish girl."  
One look at the innkeeper, and Caius knew that he was ignorant. That pleased him. If the innkeeper seemed to be part of a scam, he would be very dead. Instead, Caius was looking forward to the pleasure of breaking me.

I tried to struggle as he dragged me upstairs. I had already learned long ago that allowing someone to get a hold of me was a mistake. Just about everyone I met was bigger and stronger than myself. The one time I had seen an elven slave of a visiting Magister, even he was taller. My life had made me lean, but not very strong. Halfway up the stairs, he lifted me up and shoved me against the wall. "Very foolish," he murmured, drawing a dagger and running it lightly over my throat. I felt the burn of the cut, the thin trickle of blood as it dripped down onto my clavicle. More alarmingly, when I reached for my magic and a fire spell (damn the consequences. I didn't care if the inn burned and everyone found out what I was), my connection to the fade was severed.

He laughed in my face, enjoying the look of horror. "Magebane. It'll wear off, eventually. Not so brave now, are you? The lion has become a mouse," Caius said, shoving me before him until I stumbled into the room he rented. I had never been upstairs before, but this was not the time for me to explore. "Now, your master said you are untouched. Don't lie to me, slave. I will know. Did I overpay for you?"

The menacing tone was enough to make me take a step back. "I do not know what you mean." Another blow, and I staggered. "Truly! If you are asking if I have ever been sold for the night, I have not!" The third slap brought me to my knees. I suddenly realized what he was looking for. "Master!"

His fingers curled over my collar and drew me to my feet. "You don't even know what that means, do you?"

"No," I waited a beat. "Master."

Caius' smirk on his olive-toned face was not reassuring. "I am going to enjoy this." In one swift movement, he ripped my threadbare dress in half and pulled it from my body. Instinctively, I covered my body with my arms as much as possible, very aware of the holes in my breast-band and my frightfully small smalls.

"Stop! What are you doing?" I scrambled away, knowing even as I did so that it was in vain. His next swing sent me onto the straw mattress. I had time only to curl up against the wall, when his magic slid over my skin. It wrapped around my wrists and ankles, holding them in place so my body was on display. He disrobed and loomed over me, stringy black hair falling from its tail. "No!"

Smooth fingers roughly stroked my flesh. "Scream all you like. You can't escape, little mouse." He pressed his himself against my thigh, and though I felt the hardness, I could not comprehend it. All I knew was that this was wrong. My skin crawled where he touched, and he touched everywhere.  
Up my arms, over my shoulders, down to my breasts. He made quick work of my breast-band with his knife, and I had never felt more exposed.

"Please," I begged. All of my pride had disappeared. "Please." Desperation made me wiggle madly, but his magic was implacable.

"Yes. Good little mouse," he groaned, his voice raw. When his teeth replaced his hands, the tears started. I had never felt so dirty before in my life. _I know why mother washes,_ I thought vaguely in the back of my mind. Impatient hands pulled down my smalls, plunging a hand into my innermost being.

I screamed, despondently trying to draw away. It felt like I was being ripped apart. "No! No! Please!" My pain and the tightness around his fingers seemed to inflame him more. He slapped me once more.

"Scream again, slave," he ordered, twisting his hand viciously. I complied without intending too, the pain blurring my vision. The hand was removed and my momentary relief was shredded at the new intrusion.

"Maker, please," I shrieked, my insides tearing. I burned in my own personal hell. He withdrew only to press against me again, and the pain didn't lessen. This was too much for my mind to grasp, too much pain for my body to process. I felt the blood between my legs, but as if I were underwater, somehow removed. I closed my eyes, floating away from the horror my life had become.

_Andraste _

_Beloved. _

_I groaned, opening my eyes. I lay in a meadow, the sun warm on my face. The Magister's face flashed in front of mine, and I cried out and tried to flee. His face faded, and I was in the meadow again.  
_

_Andraste.  
_

_The voice was calm and soothing, gentle. In spite of that, I could sense the power beneath it. "Are you another spirit or a demon this time," I asked, trying to get my bearings.  
_

_I am what was before.  
_

_"I don't understand." _

_My beloved, I am the source of life. Before spirits and long before some chose to turn from me, I am.  
_

_"The Maker."  
_

_Yes, beloved.  
_

_"Why have you come to me? Why now?" I knew he would understand all that I could not put into words.  
_

_Dear one, I will not make people's choices for them. I have no love of violence or hate or cruelty. Would you have me make your choices for you, Andraste?  
_

_I recoiled at the thought. Enough of my choices were already stolen from me. "I have never heard of you talking to anyone before. Why are you talking to me? What do you want?"  
_

_Images flashed through my mind almost faster than I could follow. A forest, wolves, men with furred capes, battles, babies, freed slaves, and finally fire. I had no time to process any single image, just the sense of purpose that strung the images together. _Freedom. _And a broken empire. "I-I don't understand."_

_Thedas must change, Andraste. The Imperium hurts good people, innocent people, allows unnatural practices. Flaunts them and enjoys them. It has gone on long enough. If you will, you will be an instrument of change and do my will in Thedas. Lead a revolution.  
_

_"I can't! I'm just a girl, a slave, and a half-trained mage at that. Really, how many people have I even spoken to? I don't know how to lead. I don't even know how to be free!"  
_

_Beloved.  
_

_I felt a comforting presence envelop me.  
_

_Beloved, you must have faith. I will guide you; the spirits will protect you upon my behest. It will not be easy, but thousands of people will know a better way of life. If you will do this.  
_

_I had heard stories of real slavery and of how the Magisters commit heinous crimes in a quest for power. I could do something about it. He said it would be hard, but I had never known what easy was. I took a deep breath, and my determination solidified. If I could do something, I would. "Maker, if you would have this of me, I would do it." The words rang through the Fade, a commitment that I couldn't fully understand.  
_

_It is well. Wake, my beloved.  
_

__I gasped, struggling back into consciousness. The Magister was still on top of me, defiling me. My power sang in my veins, strengthened by anger and desperation and my connection with the Fade. He grunted, and awareness hit me all at once. "No," I screamed, "Justice, help me!" I lashed out, a tongue of flame blasting him off of me and into the wall opposite. He didn't have time to yell or even to react at all. The flames that licked at his hair blazed a bright blue, hot and intense. I turned away, unable to comprehend the column of fire that once was a man. "Stop! Please!" The blue flickered and was gone, leaving the cherry red flames I knew. They died at my command, and I leaned over the charred body. He was dead and could not hurt another soul.

My hands began to tremble, and it spread until my whole body was shaking. I had killed someone. I had killed a Magister and with magic. He had hurt me, raped me, and I had killed him. I couldn't stay. I couldn't stay there. It was time to go. I flew out of the room, untouched by the effects of the magic, and down into the kitchen. It was dark, the embers barely casting any light. Mother was sitting up, waiting for me. Her face was full of grief.

"Andraste." She held me briefly, kissing my forehead with tenderness. "I can't come, child. You must find them on your own. If I came, I would slow you down and we would both die."

The shock hadn't released me yet, and I could only stare at her.

_Andraste, beloved, you must leave. The forest, beloved, into the forest._

The voice in my mind shattered my bewilderment. "I love you, and I will come back for you," I choked out, squeezing her briefly before I sprinted out. If I hesitated, it would be worse for her. I went to the barrel, grabbing only the pack I had readied long ago, and ran.

I ran until my feet bled, dodging tree roots and undergrowth. Finally, I stumbled and fell in a grassy clearing. A meadow. A herd of deer scattered, terrified by my sudden appearance. I lay on the ground, unable to move or even cry. I was coated in sweat and blood and free. I was free. No master to answer to, and no one to touch me if I did not wish it. _Dear Maker. What now_, I thought hopelessly. How would I find them, these barbarian tribes. Would they even take me in? Would they even listen to me when I told them my task gifted by the Maker himself?

_Trust, beloved. They are south. Go south._

Slowly, I dragged myself to a stream just inside the treeline and washed myself the best I could in the cool water. I would go south, and Maker willing, my new life could begin.

*Adapted from "Man in the Moon."


End file.
